If Things Come Alive
by anatomy of kisses
Summary: My first fic. The line between stories and reality has started to blur. When the Joker is mysteriously transported to a small town in the real world, how will he keep himself from dying of boredom? Especially in a world without Batman?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I do not own Batman and the Joker, only this story and my OC.

Chapter 1

I stumble half-drunk through the apartment door. I'm instantly greeted by the choir of cats, begging for food/attention/warmth/whatever. Normally I'd squat low(maybe open a bag of treats if I'm feeling particularly benevolent) and distribute affection as I see fit. However, this has been one hell of a day, and I have no time for my precious, spoiled kitties. I'm on the way to my bed and the promise of sleep - work uniform and all - when I remember that my new package of strings was due to arrive today. Normally I check the mail once a week or so - not out of forgetfulness, as much as wanting to ignore the bills and bad news for as long as possible. The viola strings, though - they're always an exciting occurence. 80 dollars a set (a third of a damn paycheck); high-tech synthetic sheep gut wrapped in silver wire, and some of the best strings that money can buy. They takes a few days to break in (much like a pair of new shoes), but when they do my viola sounds a thousand dollars better.

I'm practically skipping down the stairs as I go to check my mail, and feel grateful for the absence of any other tenants in the hallways. I'm such an orchestra geek. When I reach the mailboxes on the first floor, one hand crosses its fingers as the other goes to unlock the box... please please please be on time. I swing open the door of the box to find a manila envelope bulging in the center, stamped with my name and the name of the mail-order company. My first set of new strings in an entire year! Oh yeah.

I run back up the stairs two at a time, ready to rip the nasty and frayed old strings from Babycakes (true orchestra geeks always name their instruments, even if said name is kept a secret from all but the cats) and throw them unceremoniously into the trash. I reach my floor and am almost at my apartment door, and that's when my heart stops and the breath is sucked right out of me.

No way. Not here, not now, not ever. This isn't happening, I tell myself. He's not even a real person, just a fictional character. Obviously someone's a little too into cosplay. Only, this is better than any cosplay pictures I've seen. This looks professional; an exact likeness. Maybe he bought the clothes off eBay or had them custom-made, and figured out how to do the makeup and scar prosthetics on his own. Hey, who knows, some people out there are even geekier than I am. This has to be the explanation, because there's no way in Hell that the Joker is walking down this hallway, in my direction.

Once I recover from my momentary lapse in judgment (he's a fictional character, there's no way he could just walk off a movie screen, like the fucking Purple Rose of Cairo or something), I somehow manage to find the strength to talk.

"Either you're a hallucination, or that's the best damn costume I've ever seen!" My attempt to be witty sounds pathetic to my ears.

He stops in his tracks, and looks at me, grinning.

"Why would I be a hallucination, babycakes? Besides, I could say the same for you."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thanks for reading. This is my first fic. Actually, I wrote a couple of fics about 7 years ago and they were horrible, so they don't count. Anyways, I don't own Batman and the Joker, DC does.

Chapter 2

His me eyes bore into me as he waits for an answer.

"Well, I just meant that your costume looks so real, it's almost like you just walked off a movie screen or something. So, what's the occasion? Going to a Halloween party... in August? Or just felt like getting dressed up? And why would I be a hallucination, anyways?" This guy is making me more nervous by the second, and when I'm nervous I jabber away incessantly.

"How... cute. Babe, I hate to disappoint you, but this isn't a costume. By the way, where am I and who the fuck are you?"

"Are you pulling my legs, crazy, or just tripping your balls off? We're on the fourth floor of the Alta apartment building. Do you even remember how you got here? As for who I am - I'm a girl getting her mail, who was just trying to make some friendly conversation!" Instinct tells me to go back inside, but this is getting interesting and I'm a curious little cat.

"I'm not _crazy_, and I can't be on the fourth floor of any building, I was just outside," he says, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I walked through that - " and he spins around, looking wildly for something. "The door - it's gone! Well, I walked through a door to get here. Maybe you're right, maybe I am crazy." He laughs, and I swear, he's even got the laugh down perfectly. The laugh, the voice, the outfit, the make-up. This guy must have watched the Dark Knight obsessively, maybe a hundred times over, before putting together this ridiculous get-up. Jesus Christ, the movie isn't even out of theaters yet! Who has this kind of free time?

"Yeah, all signs point to yes," I tell him. "You're wandering the halls of my apartment building dressed as the Joker, and you don't even know how you got here."

"I told you, this isn't a costume! Does this look like a costume to you? Do I look like some cheap copycat?"

"Calm down, calm down, I didn't mean anything by it!" Something in this guy's wild, unhinged look makes me thing he might be armed. "Look, it doesn't look like a costume. In fact, it looks so much NOT like a costume that it's scary. It looks like the real thing. But you know, it doesn't change the fact that you're impersonating a fictional character. I'm not trying to be offensive, just stating a fact." I take a few steps back from him, edging closer to my apartment door, and hold up my hands in a peace-making gesture. I try to look as harmless as possible, which isn't too difficult when you're five foot three.

Something changes in his look, in his entire demeanor. Now, instead of being on the defensive, he justs looks puzzled. He doesn't strike me as a person who is often puzzled, and the look doesn't suit him.

"What exactly do you mean by 'fictional character'?" His voice is slow and smooth and dangerous now, and I back up to the point where I'm against the wall.

"I just mean that you're - well - you bear a, um, striking resemblance to the Joker from the new Batman movie." I can't ever remember being this uncomfortable. Time to move out, soon. Too many crazies in downtown, and now one has wandered into my building. At the rate things are going my corpse will grace the evening news in a month or so, bloated and waterlogged and being dragged from the river.

He steps up a little bit closer to me. At this moment it occurs to me that his resemblance to the Joker is a little more than just "striking". From what I can tell, he's about the exact same height and build, and even seems to have the exact same bone structure in his face, if that's possible. If not the Joker, than the Joker's brother. Maybe even twin brother.

"The new Batman - what? Movie? People are making movies about us now? Oh, that's rich. That's woooonderful news." He giggles and claps his hands together like an excited shoolgirl.

"Well, it started out as a comic book. Don't you know all this? Batman's been around since the 1940s or something. Hell, the Joker that you're - um, that you look like, isn't even the only incarnation of the Joker on film. Only the most recent." This weirdo is obviously fucking with me, but I keep indulging him, thinking of unseen guns and knives that he may be hiding.

As if on cue, a small but lethal-looking blade flashes out of nowhere; he is grabbing my shoulder and pressing me into the wall. The tiny, dancing blade is at my neck, and he breathes into my ear, "Prove it. Prove that you're speaking the truth, or I'll cut the tongue right out of your mouth for even daring to say such things."

His grip on my shoulder tightens. It will bruise, I think to myself detachedly. It's as though I've left the real world; just stepped through a door and found myself here. Isn't that what he said happened to him? I find myself incapable of speech, but I nod, and the blade recedes a few inches. I take a breath that feels more like a death rattle to steady myself. I don't want this creep to know that we're only feet away from the door to my apartment, but he wants proof, and what better way to show him?

"Come on," I say. "Want proof? Ever heard of the Internet?"


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Joker character owned by DC Comics.

Chapter 3

We step into my apartment, and I can feel the tip of the knife poking into my back. My cats scatter and hide; they don't like strangers. I set the new packet of strings on the kitchen counter next to my laptop, which I turn on.

"The computer's starting up. Can you please put that fucking knife down?" He says nothing, only jabs the knife a little harder into my back in response. I think he may have actually broken skin by now. "Look, I let you into my apartment, didn't I? If you decide to flip out and kill me, there's not much I can do. I'm not big, strong, or fast, so I'm basically fucked."

At this I feel the knife retreat, and I turn around to face him.

"If you really are the Big Bad Joker and not a figment of my imagination, then what are you doing here? It's not football season yet, buddy, and there's no other reason people come here."

"Why don't you tell me where 'here' happens to be, and maybe I'll think of an answer for you. You see, last thing I remember I was minding my own business in Gotham City and - "

"Oh, likely story. Please stop pretending to be a fictional character! This is getting so old! Gotham isn't even real; just some made-up version of New York or Chicago or something!" In one swift blur of a movement he is at my side again, clamping a hand tightly over my mouth.

"You're testing my patience, Chatterbox. Interrupt me again and I'll slit your throat. Now, let's try again. Who don't you tell me where this 'here' supposedly is?"

"Tuscaloosa, Alabama, sir. Boring Southern college town; what its residents affectionately call 'a drinking town with a football problem.' If you really are who you say you are, then I don't have the slightest idea what you're doing here." I turn from him to the computer, which has finished booting up.

"Here's where you'll find the proof you wanted. Go on. Go ahead and Google yourself... better yet, look yourself up on Youtube. I'm sure they have a couple excerpts of the movie." Inwardly I pray that this creep finds what he's looking for and leaves me alone. Let him see the truth, and he'll go home and take off the makeup and purple suit and fake scars, and stop pretending to be a character from a movie. Then, the second he's gone, I'll move out - lease be damned. Even my mother's place for now, just somewhere where I don't have to worry about crazies like him pulling knives on me.

I watch him as he removes his gloves finger by finger (all the better to type with my dear) and places them gingerly on the counter next to the laptop. He types in an address, then his fingers pause above the keyboard in hesitation.

"Here." I scoot the laptop closer to myself, and see that he has opened up Youtube. Seeing is believing. I type in one word - Joker - and apart from some Steve Miller Band clips, they're all related to the new Dark Knight film. I scroll down until I find an actual clip from the movie - aha. "The Joker crashes a party!" I click, and we stand in silence in front of the laptop on my grimy kitchen counter, waiting for the movie to download.

A full minute later, he appears stunned, although his emotions are especially hard to read under that thick mask of makeup.

"I remember this. This happened recently." He sounds more as though he's arguing with himself than with me.

"When it happened, was there a camera crew? How about a lighting crew? And where do you think that background music came from - it wasn't just playing at the party! How thick can you be, this is a scene from a movie!" I screech this vindictively while pointing at the screen, but he still doesn't seem to completely buy it. Is this all some elaborate, fucked-up mind game this creep is playing with me? Just show up at some random person's doorstep pretending to be a character from a movie until they almost believe it themselves? Wave a knife in their face until they start to doubt their own sanity?

"If that isn't me," he says slowly, "Then who is it? How do you explain that we're identical? Our voices even sound the same." The doubt has left his voice and has been replaced with something akin to cockiness.

"Oh God, this is like trying to explain to a 7-year old that Santa isn't real. Look, that was an ACTOR, okay? And that wasn't even his real speaking voice, he had an Australian accent."

"He.. had?" The sliver of doubt is back, almost undetectable.

"He died, okay? This past January, I think. Overdosed, and passed away in his sleep. Poor fella was only my brother's age, maybe even a little younger. Anyways, I don't even know if you're identical. I haven't seen you without all that stupid makeup on. But if you want to know more, I think there's old Rolling Stone laying around with his obit and a picture of him. I think it's in the issue with a cracked-out Britney spears on the cover." I walk to the fridge and grab a Coors light. On second thought, I grab two.

"Look, I've had one hell of a long day. I'm not used to being threatened by fictional psychopaths from movies, and it takes a lot outta you. Want a cold one?"


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Character belongs to DC Comics.

Chapter 4

He neither refuses or accepts; just continues to stare at me. This doesn't surprise me at all. I set the beer down on the countertop anyways, in case he changes his mind.

"Sorry for asking, then. Just trying to display some of that famous Southern hospitality." I cross my arms and glare at him; this painted maniac standing in my kitchen. There's no getting rid of this lunatic, unless he decides to start menacing the general public instead of me. If he kills me - oh well, whatever; death happens every day and everybody dies. It's too late at this point to take back anything - he's already threatened me with a knife, and is inside my apartment. I only hope that it won't be a painful and drawn-out affair.

He just keeps staring at me, and I try to pretend that this doesn't make me extremely uncomfortable. After 20 or 30 seconds of this, he sighs. "How do you expect me to believe that we're in Alabama? More importantly, how do you expect me to believe that I'm not a real person? Can a fictional character do _this_?" He rolls up his sleeve a few inches, and the pretty little blade that was previously at my mouth dances lightning-fast across his forearm. I blink, and suddenly garnet red drops of blood are pooling in a line on his arm. The sight of blood doesn't make me squeamish.

"Look, buddy, I never said you weren't a real person, so please put that fucking knife away! You're obviously real; you're standing in my kitchen and dripping blood on my floor. All I said was that you're dressed as a character from a movie, so don't start putting words in my mouth. And as for the Alabama part?" I stride across the kitchen into the adjacent living room, and manage to force open one of the small, grimy windows. "Here. Put your hand outside the window. I'm assuming that your imaginary Gotham City is somewhere in the north. Does Gotham feel anything like this in August?"

Once again, he ignores me and it doesn't surprise me. He's back at the laptop; probably on Google or youtube or maybe even just looking up some porn, like a regular guy would. I sink into my old futon couch, and bury my head in my hands. Part of me wants him to leave, and part of me doesn't care what might befall me - this is the most interesting thing that's happened to me in months, maybe even years. If curiosity kills me, then so be it. My initial thoughts of being pulled from the river return to me, but the images flashing in my head no longer have the power to scare me. After all, it's only death - something I was too cowardly to bring upon myself in years past. Maybe this painted homicidal clown wanna-be is a blessed release in disguise. Christ, I need some fucking therapy.

I chug the last bit of my beer, and head to the fridge for another. The Joker (I can't BELIEVE I'm already mentally referring to him as such, as though he were the real thing) is still hunched over my laptop, not saying anything. I wonder when the mood will strike him to leave. I could ask him to, but this doesn't seem like the kind of man who bends to anyone's will.

"Look, buddy, are you planning on staying the night? I wouldn't normally just invite some homicidal maniac who threatened to cut off my tongue to sleep on my couch, but I'm absolutely fucking exhausted, and even if I asked you to leave you'd probably just whip out your knife again and wave it in my face. Anyways, I have spare blankets." I can't believe I'm inviting this creep to stay. Am I really that lonely and desparate?

He looks at me as though considering his options. An odd smirk creeps across his face, as though he knows something I don't.

"You should be afraid of me, little girl. Are you too stupid to realize this, or too crazy to care?" He acts as though he's just heard some amazingly funny joke which was intended for his ears only. Again with the creepy laugh - this cat really has a taste for the theatrical, I tell myself.

"You're right," I tell him. "I'm too crazy to care, and too sleepy to bother trying to remove you from my apartment. I'm going to bed. The blankets are in that closet, and I think there might be a spare pillow as well. Try not to break, steal, or kill anything while I'm asleep, and for the love of God, don't bleed on anything else I own. The stains are hell to get rid of."

I wave, then start walking down the hall towards my bedroom. My bedroom door has a lock, but it's not terribly secure. Oh well... he can kill me, but I hope he'll at least leave my cats alone. To be safe, I lock them in my bedroom with me. I don't know how I'll be able to sleep with a crazy man prowling my apartment, but I can't possibly keep my eyes open any longer. I fall dead asleep only seconds after my head touches the pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: I do not own the Joker. Thanks so much for your sweet reviews, everybody!

Chapter 5

I wake to one of my cats, pawing at my face and purring. I half-consciously pet him for a moment, still caught somewhere in my nightmare. I return to the surface, and my mind won't let me remember what had me so disturbed. When consciousness hits me, I remember last night's events. Is he still here? Has he murdered half of the tenants in my apartment complex by now? Or maybe he's gotten himself arrested, and is sitting in the jail like his film counterpart. Not my problem.

Somehow I find the inspiration to get out of bed. I trudge to the door and open it nervously - there's no one here. Some of my drawers are standing open, and the contents look disrupted. I go to the drawers where the goods are held; the things he would have wanted. I'm not at all surprised to see that my knives are gone. I look to the front door, which is standing ajar. God help whoever he's terrorizing now.

I shut the door and begin the morning ritual of making the coffee and pouring the cereal. As I sit down to eat, I realize that I'm actually _disappointed_. For once something out of the ordinary had happened to me, something that might have come from one of the fantasy books that I've devoured over the years. Something about this guy struck me as genuine, as though he'd come right off the movie screen itself. It wasn't just the professional-quality makeup and the well-made costume. His _face_ - his face was just too similar, and it was deeply unsettling. The voice was also perfect - who could mimic that voice so perfectly? The abrupt changes in pitch, the almost old-fashioned accent, the gravelly timbre? Could it be that he really did just walk through the wrong door? I believe in ghosts, I believe in voodoo, so how is this any different?

I'm finishing up my cereal when the front door swings open, and in comes the man of the hour.

"You were right", he says. "This isn't Gotham City. Although, I think my time here won't be misspent. This town's too sleepy for my taste, and I intend to change that."

"Of course it isn't Gotham... I'm glad you're starting to come around to my way of thinking. However, you'll be surprised by this town come Friday and Saturday night. Chaos will rear its ugly head, and I'm sure you'll have an excellent time." I look down at the week-old newspaper sitting on my table, and pretend to read it. Inwardly I'm gleeful that Crazy McNutcase has returned. Whether I get hurt or not, I'm certain to have an _interesting _time with this fellow.

"Oh, I don't think you'll have to wait that long for things to get interesting." He grins like a hyena - in that moment, in the distance, I feel something rumble and shake.. A low _boom_ sound comes a split second later, and he throws back his head and laughs.

This fucker, I think. He's been here less than 24 hours and he's already blown something up. He just doubles up with giggles, and pretty soon I suspect he'll start rolling on the floor. I can barely surpress a grin.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: I do not own the Joker, DC does. Thanks to KatxValentine for the shout-out! You should all go read her fic Dark Side of the Moon, it's awesome!

Chapter 6

"What did you blow up?" I ask him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says with an excellent poker face. "I merely stepped out for a nice little stroll. I had no _idea_ this town was so dangerous!" He smirks at me, and I glare in return.

"I just hope you didn't kill anybody." Suddenly, an idea strikes me. I have a few extra dollars left over, and could pay for both of us. Will it get rid of him? Either way, I could pass a few hours before I have to go to work.

"Why don't you come see a movie with me? It's a _good_ one. It's about a fellow called Batman, and a guy called the Joker makes some appearances. I think you'd really love it!" I'm smiling, but my eyes are not. Neither are his.

He sighs, and takes a seat in my most comfortable chair. "Why not? Sounds interesting." One of my cats musters up the courage to brush against his leg, and to my surprise he reaches down and pets her, not in the way one would think a fictional-super-villain-impersonator (or maybe even the real thing?) would pet a cat. He almosts seems pleasant for a brief moment.

"Ok, then. Give me fifteen or twenty minutes to get ready. God, the people at the theater will think you're such a geek. Getting dressed up as one of the characters is weird enough, but even more so when the movie's already been out for three weeks." I roll my eyes at him, and he just ignores me. This is a good sign: I'd much rather he ignore me than to continue to insist that he's actually the Joker. I don't feel comfortable arguing with this man.

My cat jumps up into his lap. Little traitor. I shut myself in the bathroom, and find myself wishing that the door was equipped with a lock. I disrobe, then start the shower. Two or three minutes have passed when I hear the door close. Goddamnit.

"Hurry up," he tells me. "I'm getting sooo bored. Plus, I just can't _wait _ to see my screen debut. Who knows, maybe I'll get an Os-"

"Get the fuck out of here!! I'm taking a fucking shower!!" I am very conscious of the fact that my shower curtain isn't quite opaque. He suddenly yanks back the curtain with one swift move. His eyes move up and down my body appraisingly before I have the chance to cover myself up with my hands. I feel exposed, violated, and - I hate to admit this to myself - turned on. I feel sickened by him, and by my own reaction. He just laughs at me, and closes the curtain. I hear the door shut. That son of a bitch.

We'll see just how hard the movie makes him laugh. Maybe I can pretend to go to the bathroom while we're watching it, and just leave him in the theater. He doesn't appear to know the town; he'll have no idea how to get back to my apartment from the movie theater. No one, no matter how friendly, will be willing to give a ride to a hitchhiker like _this_ psycho. Who knows how long he'll be stuck there? For once I feel thankful for the fact that our public transit system isn't worth a damn.

I turn off the faucet, step out of the shower and start towelling off my hair. I tense myself for his re-entry, resolving to knee him in the balls when the door opens. No hesitation. The moment never comes, though. I put my dirty clothes back on (no way am I going back out there with only a towel wrapped around me) and wrap the damp towel around my head like a turban. I steel myself before opening the door. I don't want him to know how much he has shaken me.

"Hey, asshole. Are you ready to go?" He just leers at me, and I can't shake the feeling that he's undressing me in his mind . Not that he'd have to do much imagining. I try to show no emotion, and I think I'm doing decent job. He'd only feel satisfied to know that he made me so uncomfortable. I can't let him have the satisfaction. I grab my purse and keys from the counter.

"Well, movie star? Come on, I want to grab a bite to eat before the movie. What do sociopathic mass-murderers eat?" I can't believe I'm going to buy food for this creep.

"Meat," he says with a carnivorous gleam in his eyes. "Red meat."


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Joker belongs to DC comics. Once again, thank you all so much for your reviews!

Chapter 7

I'm glad that no one sees us on the way down to the car. If I could feel any more awkward I'd probably faint. "I hope you like barbecue. I know of a place with a drive-through. No way am I taking you inside a restaurant," I tell him. "Do you have any money?" I don't expect a response - does this guy look like he'd be doing anything as normal as carrying around a wallet? To my surprise, he pulls out a beat-up purple wallet (where the hell did he find a purple wallet?) which is positively _overflowing_ with bills. I can sense myself salivating, and I almost snatch it from him. His eyes sparkle at me; I guess my greed amuses him.

I pull out the first few bills, and my jaw drops. "Where in the hell did you find this money?" I hold up one of the bills: in the place of Ben Franklin, this hundred-dollar bill is marked with Andrew Jackson's face. Apart from the obvious discrepancy, this looks just like legal tender. Why would someone go to the trouble to make counterfeit bills with the wrong president's face? I hold it up to the light: there's even a thin vertical band running through the bill and a watermark of Andrew Jackson's face. It even has the feel of real money; the stiff, half-paper-half-textile feel that is almost impossible to imitate.

"What's wrong? Never seen this much cash at once, doll? Hang around me long enough and you'll get used to it." He grins like the Cheshire cat and his face lights up like Christmas. The makeup is starting to wear off, revealing broad patches of flesh on his forehead and cheeks.

"Why in the hell do these bills have Andrew Jackson on them? He's on the twenty, Ben Franklin is on the hundred. Did you actually think you'd be able to use these?"

He just laughs at me in response. "That's real cute, dollface. You work for minimum wage in a sandwich shop. For all I know, you've never even seen a hundred dollar bill in your life." How in the fuck does this guy know where I work? Must have noticed my uniform last night. Oh well, let him think what he wants. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he tries to pay for something with this bogus money.

Finally, I turn the keys in the ignition and start the car. For a moment, the absurdity of the entire situation is just too much, and can't surpress my laughter. I'm driving the Joker to a restaurant, then we're going to see a movie together. Amost like a date, but with a man who my warped mind is coming to believe is the actual Joker, sprung from some bizarro parallel universe where Andrew Jackson's face graces the hundred instead of the twenty. Even if he isn't the Joker, I'm still having a good time. I"m actually glad that he decided to return to my apartment - my life could use some spicing up..

I drive him to the restaurant, and to my relief he keeps silent the entire way there. We sit in the drive-through for a few moments as I order, and then we wait. God, I hope the person working the drive-through doesn't catch a glimpse of this weirdo.

Thankfully, the woman at the window is too busy to notice my passenger. We drive off; the smell of fresh hot barbecue filling the car. We arrice at the theater, and the next showing isn't for twenty minutes. Plenty of time for us to sit in my car, eat and... talk? I just don't know what to talk about with this man. It isn't exactly that he frightens me... He's almost too charismatic to be scary, and I'm too much of a masochist to be scared of much these days. It's just that he's so damn _bizarre_.

"So, uhh... what did you do, you know, before you.. umm... joked? For lack of a better term." There I go. Always the comedian.

"What did I do before? It changes, uh, depending on my mood. I guess you could say I prefer my history to be multiple choice!" I figure that this is as much as I can hope to get out him, and return to focusing on my food. When I'm done, I open the car door.

"Come on, toots... you ready to embarass me in front of the entire movie theater? Don't walk close to me; I don't want people to think I'm with you. Especially if you plan to keep blowing things up in the future." He says nothing, only smirks and grabs my hand, squeezing so tightly that I can't wrench myself free.

"Oh, our first date," I say sarcastically. I know why he's doing this, I know he just wants to make me as uncomfortable as possible. Best that I just play along - show him that he's not the only one who can see the funny side. Inspiration takes hold. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. I see with deep satisfaction that I've managed to unnerve him. I use the back of my free hand to wipe the white paint from my lips as we walk hand-in-hand (or, perhaps more accurately, he _drags_ me by the hand) through the parking lot towards the theater.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Once again, thanks for the awesome reviews! Sorry for taking so long to update. And who can figure out what book series I'm referencing in the middle of this chapter? I have nothing to give you if you guess correctly, but I can give you a pretend prize. They're almost as good, trust me.

Chapter 8

We certainly attract some strange looks on our way into the theater, and I ignore them as best as I can. I don't bother asking him if he wants popcorn; I've spent enough money on this fucker already. I scan my memory - no, we don't even know each other's names. I'm actually, God help me, thinking of him as "The Joker". He's most likely thinking of me as "The Naive, Slightly Crazy Girl Who Let Me Into Her Apartment and Subsequently Into Her Life". Nah, that name is much too long. I'm probably just "The Girl".

We take our seats in a nearly empty theater, and my mind begins to wander. I've seen this movie twice already, and I don't feel too excited about the fact that it's two and a half hours long. This is also the first time I'm seeing it sober. It's a great movie, but I have the attention span of a ten-week-old puppy. Something tells me, however, that my new Joker buddy will find it to be extremely _captivating_.

We sit through some previews, and the only one that manages to catch my interest is the preview for "The Watchmen". I look over at him, and when the preview is over I lean over to whisper in his ear, the smell of the facepaint teasing me.

"You know," I whisper to him, "the same man who wrote "The Watchmen" wrote a book about you, back in the 80's. You oughtta shoplift it from Barnes & Noble sometime." I smirk at him, and lean back into my seat.

"Miss, if you don't mind, I'm _trying_ to pay attention to my, um, feature film _debut_..." His tone is half joking, half serious. I resolve to say nothing for the entire duration of the movie. I'm counting on my trusty ability to fall asleep either naturally or though artificial means. It begins, and there is no ignoring the electrifying opening scene. I look to my "date", and his eyes are riveted to the screen; hands clenched to the arms of the seat. His expression is unchanging. It must be a fairly odd experience to see yourself as one of the main characters of a Hollywood blockbuster, I muse. Not that I would know.

As time passes and images fly before my glazed-over eyes, I find myself wondering things about the man sitting next to me. If he really _is_ the Joker, did he have any idea that Bruce Wayne was Batman? I mean, considering that he wore a full bodysuit and cowl the similarity wasn't nearly as obvious as the one between Superman and Clark Kent... but who else in Gotham City would have the free time, spending money, and access to ridiculously advanced technologies? And wasn't it fairly common knowledge in this movie-universe that Bruce and Rachel were old friends? I figured he at least would have had an inkling of Batman's identity at some point. There's no point in asking him, though - in all probability his answer would be a lie.

I grow drowsy during the Joker-free parts of the movie, but whenever my "date" appears on screen, things come alive. I somehow just _can't _connect the man on the screen (possibly the same as the man sitting next to me) to the actor I saw and didn't really notice in so many movies over the years. It's almost as though he really _is_ a complete different entity... but that's the entire point of acting, right? An uneasy knot forms in my stomach. I remember a series of books I read once, which proposed the idea that there are an almost infinite number of parallel universes. So many, in fact, that even the _stories_ are real, somewhere - all it takes is for a writer here to channel them into something that holds power in our world. The books also mentioned something else - sometimes these parallel worlds were so similar to ours that one of the few noticable differences would be differences in the money - the presidents would appear on different bills (Andrew Jackson on the hundred?), and sometimes they would feature presidents who had never been elected in our world at all. Stop, the rational side of my inner voice says.. Are you seriously thinking of using _that_ as an explanation for this guy's shitty counterfeit bills?

I remember my earlier plan to abandon him in the theater. This'll probably be my only opportunity, so I should seize it while I can - sentimental feelings about my new "friend" be damned. I mutter to him that I'm going to the bathroom, and stand up. Before I can walk away, however, I feel his claw-like grip on my arm.

"Not. Going. Anywhere. Sit back down and enjoy the movie, babe." Although he is speaking to me, his dark eyes never leave the screen. The interrogation scene is beginning, and he leans forward in his seat, licking his lips feverishly.

So that's it, then. No abandoning this guy. For whatever reason, he wants me at his side, and the thought is both terrifying and exciting. I realize that a small, fucked-up part of me is actually _flattered_, and I feel ashamed of myself. Leaning back into my comfortable seat, I reach into my purse for a familiar bottle, and begin dry-swallowing pill after pill. I remember that the drugs I'm taking are some of the same ones that killed the man I'm watching on screen. Oh, the irony. Ten, twenty minutes pass - the old familiar fuzzy feeling starts enveloping me, and my eyelids grow heavy. I reach over and pull at his sleeve.

"Hey, buddy... I'm cold. Give me that ridiculous purple jacket." He merely snorts, and continues to watch the screen. Fine, I'll do without. The last thing I see before I pass out is my mate, larger-than-life on the movie screen, in a ridiculous but strangely alluring nurse's uniform. Strangely alluring? Must be the drugs talking.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Sorry it took so long to update! I love you all, reviewers and readers. By the way, the book series I referenced was the Dark Tower series by Stephen King. I'm a huuuuge Dark Tower geek, and have been since I was 8, although they're not appropriate for kids and I don't recomend loaning them to a child, like my brother did. XD They're truly incredible books, especially if you like stories that mix real-life and fantasy elements and explore concepts like multiple worlds.

Chapter 9

I am rudely awakened by a slap in the face. "Dude, what the fuck?" I say, rubbing my eyes and trying to ignore the stinging in my cheek.

"Get up," he says curtly. "Movie's over." I look around and people are filing out of the theater around us, and I see a few of them giggling and pointing at the man dressed as the Joker. He doesn't seem to notice - in all likelihood he's used to attracting attention. Instead, he appears to be focusing on something I can't see and licking his lips so fast that his tongue is a blur. He has a wild, agitated look in his eyes, and is anxiously bouncing on the balls of his feet. Seeing that the movie has disturbed him so, I can't help but wonder again if he might possibly _be_ the Joker. If he isn't the Joker, then he's certainly the best (and craziest) actor that I've ever met. An actor with a one-member audience: me.

"Hurry up," he tells me. Instead of giving me a few seconds to recover from my drug-induced stupor (or as I like to think of it, my "Xananap"), he suddenly grabs my wrist and yanks me roughly out of my seat. At this point the theater is almost entirely empty, and noone notices.

"You'd better be careful with how you, um, manhandle me in public," I say. "Folks around here don't cotton to the idea of men roughing up women. If you get seen, you're likely to have some random redneck guys try to fight you." He says nothing in response, only smiles wickedly and yanks my ponytail forcefully, which causes me to yelp like a puppy whose paw has just been stepped on. This man is _such_ a miserable shithead, I think to myself. If he decides to sleep on my couch tonight (I doubt I have much say in the matter), then I'll sneak up and hit him on the head with a frying pan. Nah, probably wouldn't work. He doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who does anything as normal as _sleep_.

I follow him out of the theater and into the parking lot. Does he believe yet? ...Do I believe him? I unlock the car, and we take our seats and I start the car. "So, ummm.. what did you think of the movie?" I ask timidly during the drive back to my apartment.

"Shut up." Ok, point taken. If he _is_ the Joker, then I can't imagine that seeing the movie was a pleasant experience. A man's life, created to entertain/frighten the masses for a movie studio's profit and to help sell toys and merchandise. Or did he already exist on some plane that the creators of the movie unknowingly tapped? Are there multiple Jokers in multiple universes, one for each incarnation? There would be dozens, probably - after all, the character's existed for over 60 years; he's been in comics, movies, cartoons, live-action tv shows, and probably other forms of media that I can't even imagine.. All of this is making my head spin. If there really is a Joker, then does the list go on? Obviously he wouldn't exist without Batman, but what about other characters, ones that weren't in the movie? Robin, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, the Riddler, the Mad Hatter, and so on and so on?

Hell, why stop there? If the Joker's real, what about characters from entirely different stories? Is there some parallel universe where Harry Potter is duking it out with Voldemort, or where Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader are currently engaged in a light-saber duel?

Ok, accept it. This guy is a fake. Accept it, or go insane from a fucked-up existentialist crisis. I look over at him, and am surprised to find him staring at me, with a most curious look on his face.

"Why so serious?" I ask, in my best Joker impression. After the words leave my lips I realize that that was probably not the most tactful thing I could have said. However, instead of getting angry, he only throws back his head and laughs.

"Take me somewhere interesting," he says. "If Batman and Gotham really don't exist in this world, then take me around and show me a good time before I die of boredom. Give me something to do, or I'll kill you, take your car, and find something _interesting _on my own. Likely whatever I think of will involve as much mass destruction as possible before I take myself out."

Ah, so that's what's really got him down, is it? He's not upset to learn that he's a fictional character... he's just upset that he can't play with Batman anymore. He hasn't killed me, because I'm the only one he knows in this world. Not to mention that I've been feeding him, offered to let him sleep on my couch, have been driving him all over an unfamiliar town, and... what else? Oh yeah - I haven't called the police on him yet, even after I heard the explosion this morning.

"I have work in an hour," I tell him. "I need to go home, sober up, and put on my uniform. Maybe I'll show you around some other time."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about going to work. I already took care of that. In fact, after what I did to the place this morning, _noone _will ever have to worry about going to work there again! Now, be a good little tour guide. Take me to a city: a real one, not this little pit-stop. Take me somewhere filthy and dark." He grins at me.

"Oh gee, _thanks_ for blowing up my work! That was awfully thoughtful of you - I mean, it's not like I need money or anything! Shit, I'll just buy gas and groceries with your funny little Monopoly bills!" If this man weren't so dangerous, I'd slap the paint off his face.

"Like I said, take me to a city. Money isn't a problem. Take me somewhere that isn't here, and I won't kill you. I think." I can't tell if he's joking or not. Oh well... there's no arguing with this guy. If we need money, he'll probably just rob a bank or something. Apparently he's quite the bank-robbery expert.

"Alright then," I say with a sigh. "Ever wanted to go to Birmingham? If you're looking for someplace filthy and dark, then I don't think you'll be disappointed. Hey, I could even drop you off in the projects! They could probably do with a clown around to cheer them up."

"Well, aren't you quite the little joker yourself? Hey, maybe I'm rubbing off on you." He cackles to himself. This guy's jokes aren't that funny... why is he always so goddamned giggly?

"I guess you are. Let's hope I don't start blowing things up and killing people with writing utensils." I get on the ramp leading to the interstate, and we begin our merry journey to Birmingham. The people there have no idea what this guy has in store for them. Neither do I.


End file.
